


Bent

by NostalgicMogwai



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Gore, Implied necrophilia, Jeffrey Dahmer - Freeform, Masturbation, Other, True Crime, blah, conflicting thoughts, first fic so bear with me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 06:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8317345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NostalgicMogwai/pseuds/NostalgicMogwai
Summary: Jeff Dahmer stands back to admire his gruesome work, his mind at work as the intermingling confusion of lust and disgust plague his thoughts.*sorry, shitty at summaries*





	

**Author's Note:**

> I by no means condone Dahmer or his actions, I find myself guiltily fascinated by him and can't help but wonder what it must have been like to have been him, to get inside his head and try and make sense of all the hazardous pain and destruction he created, not just for his victim's and their families, but for himself too.  
> Also this is my first fanfic so there's probably lots of errors and paragraphing and punctuation mistakes. Please don't be to harsh and I hope who ever reads this enjoys it. It's a rather dark theme.

He stayed still, looking studiously at the beautiful disaster before him. Blood, crushed bone, and plasma. All spirling down the rusted drain of the old stained tub. 

He put a hand to his mouth, absent mindedly chewing on a nail. His gaze locked with the horror show that laid before him. The horror show that he had created. Disgust and bliss migling as one in his head at the sight. Why was he cursed, so forsaken as to have such dastardly desires? His depravity knew no bounds. His hunger never ending, a bottomless pit of emptiness forever seeking to be filled.

And fill it he will try.

He cocked his head to the side, the hand leaving his mouth, then softly trailing down his long and leath neck. Stopping to stroke his jutted adams apple, then a colar bone, then traveling further, down his sunken in chest cavity, Past his flat navel, finally gripping a hip bone with enough force, there will be bruises tomorrow. 

He sighed, his head rolling on his neck as the old feeling emerged, the unspeakable urge. The drive so powerful it foreshadowed evey minute of every hour of every moment of his waking existence. And even at times in his slumber.  
Abstract dreams of sex and violence. But never was there suffering, pain is not what he desired. What he desired, no, DEMANDED, was obedience. Complete and utter control. To dominate, own, and possess. Forever.

So here he stands, his body shaken by arousal, his hand finally travels further, reaching it's destination as he began giving himself relief, continuing to stare at the gory scene. How did things get this far? How did he lust so strong for the sight of what's inside a man, to be out? But never could anyone be closer to another as he was, the intimacy so much so that he made love to all the bits and pieces of them, love with a body know's no bounds. How fortunate is he to take the heart of his lover and consume it, forever keeping their love internalized and with him for the rest of his miserable days.. Perhaps he wasn't forsaken, perhaps he was enlightened. 

He smirked at the thought, a slight groan escaping his parted lips as he continued to pleasure himself.

For surely everyone could only dream of being as etangled and entrapped with their lover's as he was? He was never able to be close enough to them, so he splayed them open and took possession of the very things that made them, them. He didn't see them as victims, but as companions, eternelized beauties to never leave his side. In his times of greif and need, they will be there for him. When he faced complete isolation, he will have their comfort. Perhaps he wasn't cursed, perhaps he was blessed beyond all. 

He threw his head back, a heated moan escaping his plush lips one last time, his hips involuntarily thrusting into his hand as he finally climaxed, his seed then becoming one with the human matter below in the ceramic shower. 

He caught his breath, using his unsoiled hand to swipe back a lock of sandy blond hair that had fallen over his mute blue eyes, never breaking his focus on the shower before him. He smirked, admiring the contrast of the semen mixing in with the blood matter, all coming to a final spiral that now rushed down the rusted drain.

Bliss and disgust.

These are the words to best describe his state of life. He cannot have one without the other. He will forever be in this paradox, trapped between the addictive aphrodisiac of hedonistic pleasure, and intense self loathing and discomptempt. 

He sometimes wonders, hopes, that it will all end. That it will all come crashing down around him, leaving him stripped and bare, his unspeakable secret revealed. But not now, now is not the time. But soon, maybe soon enough, he'll be free from the beautiful hell he distills upon himself and the beautiful passerby's who become eternally entrapped in his web of chaos.


End file.
